


Don't You Wanna Dance?

by Magnolia822



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 5 Times, 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Dancing, Falling In Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Nanny Ashtoreth Appreciation (Good Omens), Other, Thirsty Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 04:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29745102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magnolia822/pseuds/Magnolia822
Summary: Five times that Aziraphale and Crowley saw each other dancing, and the one time they danced together.A fill for my Good Omens 2021 bingo card, 'dance.'
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 85
Collections: Good Omens Bingo 2021





	Don't You Wanna Dance?

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the folks over at the Good Omens Bingo Discord for helping me with some of these scenarios, and to Junkshop Disco for the 5 times idea and song inspiration. Also, thank you to my beta, SillyGoose, as always! 
> 
> Credit for lyrics cited belong to: 
> 
> The Eurythmics, "Love is a Stranger" 
> 
> Clifford Gray, "Spread a Little Happiness" - This is the song that Neil cited as Aziraphale's favorite in [this post](https://neil-gaiman.tumblr.com/post/189964844811/what-are-aziraphale-and-crowleys-favorite-songs#:~:text=you%2Dare%2Da%2Dfishmonger,aziraphale%20and%20Crowley's%20favorite%20songs%3F&text=good%2Domens%2Dowl%20reblogged%20this,this%20is%20Aziraphale's%20favorite%20song.).
> 
> Queen, "You're My Best Friend"

_1698_

The ballroom was filled with people bedecked with costumes of the most lavish Aziraphale had ever seen on display. He was dazzled by candlelight shimmering from the crystal chandeliers, the gold and jewels and the vibrant dresses worn by the women. Aziraphale’s own simple yet refined costume was not as attention-grabbing as most, but he was here on assignment, and it wouldn't do to be ostentatious. He sipped his champagne and watched the masked dancers come to the floor as the orchestra struck up a minuet.

All were enchanting and graceful, but one man in particular cut an impressive figure. His black face mask glittered with jewels, and horns issued from the top of it, much like those of a stag. His clothing was of the highest quality black silk, and his lustrous, unpowdered red hair hung loosely down his shoulders. He was sinuous in his movements, his lithe figure drawing the attention of many of the women and more than a few of the men. There were whispers and conjecture as members of the court gossiped, trying to place the man’s identity. He was obviously not a familiar figure at court. 

Aziraphale watched as the man circled his partner, a voluptuous woman wearing a feathered green mask and a matching dress which accentuated her considerable attributes. They held hands and came together as they turned, then released each other, their feet moving in a quick rhythm, only to return again to holding hands. Aziraphale couldn’t tear his eyes away as he watched the catch and release. He was almost jealous of the woman in green; he wondered what it would be like to have the honour of being the man’s partner. There was something very familiar about his carriage, and that distinctive hair – Aziraphale nearly dropped his glass as he realised who it was. 

“Crowley,” he whispered to himself. Of course – how could he not have realised? “But what in the devil is he doing here?” The demon hadn’t told him he was coming to Versailles when they last met in England several months before. 

The dance was ending. As if Crowley had heard his name, he turned his head, and after bowing to his partner and leading her from the floor, he made his way over to where Aziraphale was standing near to the refreshments. 

“Hullo, Aziraphale.” 

“Hello,” Aziraphale said, straightening himself up. His own mask ¬– pearly white and decorated with beads and feathers, was on a little stick. He held it to his face, but it was a rather insufficient disguise compared with Crowley’s. They were being watched now by a few curious onlookers who were trying to puzzle out their relationship. “May I ask what it is you’re doing here?” 

“Me? I’m dancing. What are you doing here?” 

“Yes, but why are you dancing?” 

“Because it’s fun?” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “ _Who_ were you dancing with?” 

“It was work, angel. Don’t tell me you’re jealous?” Crowley leaned forward confidently, and his horns nearly grazed the side of Aziraphale’s face. He was . . . distractingly close. 

“Don’t be preposterous.” He scoffed. “Why would I be jealous of a human woman?” 

Crowley blinked. “I meant jealous of me.” 

“Of course. I know you did,” Aziraphale said, fighting back the warmth rising to his cheeks. His corporation was prone to blushing, a most inconvenient matter. “In any case, that’s not the point. You haven’t answered my question. You’re deflecting.” 

Crowley crossed his arms and shrugged. “Oh, you know, sowing seeds of discontent in the court. Envy, lust, greed. You have no idea how easy it is. These people do _not_ trust each other.” 

“Yes well, they have good reason. You weren’t behind all that poisoning business a while back, were you?”

“No, no, poison’s not my style, angel. Too easy to get it wrong if you’re not paying attention. Messy.” He made a face. “So what are you doing here?” 

“I suppose I’m here to stop you from working your wiles. But really, to convince the king to stop going to war with everyone. It’s a bit much, really.” 

“Yeah, it’s not going great for your side, is it?” 

“Exactly. Well. I suppose you’ll be a regular at court, then?” There was a strange, hopeful note in his voice that he immediately counteracted with a stern follow-up: “That could prove rather awkward, given our association.” 

“’Fraid not,” Crowley said. “This is only a stopover. I’m on my way to Spain tomorrow.” 

“Oh.” He supposed it was for the best. “Perhaps we could get lunch before you leave?” 

“Sure, angel. Hey. I’ve got another dance obligation – see you later?” A rather eager looking young woman was standing a short distance off, trying and failing not to look over. 

“All right. Behave yourself, Crowley.” 

Crowley grinned at him. “Only if you don’t.” 

Aziraphale sighed and took up another glass of champagne.

_***  
1883_

On a spring day in 1883, Crowley woke up and went looking for Aziraphale. He had a knack for sensing the angel’s essence by now – all he had to do was concentrate hard enough, want to see the angel badly enough, and he would be able to feel that subtle pulse of energy – not quite heavenly, but of Heaven, if that made any sense. It was how he had managed to save the bloody idiot from discorporation at the business end of the guillotine, though Aziraphale had never asked him about it. He sometimes wondered if Aziraphale would be able to find him, too, but he had his doubts. After all, he had only been able to find Aziraphale once he knew he was in love with him. Aziraphale did not feel the same way about him, or even if he did, would never admit it.

This time, instead of following the trail to the angel’s bookshop, as he expected, Crowley wound up on the pavement in front of a gentleman's club, The Seven Guineas. It looked posh, but not as posh as some of the London clubs frequented mostly by the aristocracy. This was a club for the upper middle classes – lawyers, successful tradesmen, members of the Commons. 

Crowley gave his name at the door, was found on the list because he expected to be there, and was led upstairs to the card room, which was filled with mostly young and middle-aged men drinking and playing whist. No sign of the angel, though. Crowley felt the warm familiar energy pulse through the room beyond, and he followed it through the wood-paneled dining room, where several tables were filled with men talking, laughing, and undoubtedly flirting. One of the men at the closest table had his hand on his companion’s knee, and in a dark corner in the far side of the room, a couple was sitting even closer. So, this was the manner of club Aziraphale was frequenting these days – how very interesting. 

He came to a full stop at the next door, which was partially obscured by a thick velvet curtain. There was no doubt Aziraphale was beyond it, but Crowley wasn’t certain what else was, and so he did the brave thing and peeked through. 

The room was filled with around twenty people. A few were smoking and standing to the side around the piano, which was being played by a young blond man wearing a burgundy jacket, but most gentlemen were gathered in the center, which had been cleared of chairs, the billiard table pushed to the side. They were dancing together. 

Aziraphale was among them. He was linked by the arms in a chain with three other men, and he was kicking his legs up with enthusiasm, a brilliant grin on his face. He was wearing his long coat and tartan cravat – the same one he’d been wearing when they’d last seen one another. Crowley’s breath caught as he watched, glad for the anonymity the curtain provided. He wasn’t sure if he had ever seen the angel so happy – so jaunty, for there was no other way to describe it – and the realisation stung more than Crowley had been prepared for. The angel put his hands on his hips and stepped lively as the other men fanned out around him, and then they were back together in a row, all of them grinning at one another as they held onto each other again and danced across the room. 

The onlookers clapped and laughed, occasionally shouting to one or other of the dancers; they all knew each other well, and Aziraphale was clearly one of the inner circle. He was comfortable, at ease in a way Crowley had only seen . . . well, with him, during certain occasions, none recently, since their falling out over Crowley’s request for holy water and, once rejected, his subsequent nap. It was good to see the angel now. Crowley had dreamed of him, but never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined Aziraphale dancing like this. It was so unlike the cautious, buttoned-up version he usually presented to the world. He was utterly carefree, and a spasm of what felt like physical pain shot through Crowley as he realised that Aziraphale was happy without him. The dancers spun around, laughing as the dance devolved from the established steps and finally ended. 

They cleared the floor and then Aziraphale was leaning close and smiling as one of the men, tall and broad-shouldered, spoke to him, putting his arm around the angel’s waist for a lingering hug. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, which meant that the man was either casually affectionate with the others or with Aziraphale in particular. Crowley’s mouth tasted sour. He couldn’t help hating the man a little and wondering if he should do something petty, like tie his shoelaces together. He was still a demon, after all, and a little demonic miracle would be so simple. It would probably also draw Aziraphale’s attention to him, and not in a good way. 

At that point, he realised he should either go or make himself known in the normal fashion. Watching Aziraphale like this while the angel was himself unaware seemed wrong, but yet he made no move to enter the room or reverse his course. He was frozen still, undecided. But he also knew that if he spoke to the angel now, it would be awkward. He was having far too many feelings, and feelings were the last thing they needed right now. Aziraphale was happy, and that was good. Crowley wanted that for him, and so he went away. 

If he had stayed one minute longer, he would have seen Aziraphale turn his head knowingly toward the curtain.

_***  
1982_

Aziraphale had been knocking for almost ten minutes when he finally decided to take matters into his own hands and let himself into Crowley’s flat. Inside, the music was even louder – a terrible thumping beat and instruments doing what they had never been intended to do. It was no wonder Crowley hadn’t heard him. And it was louder still as Aziraphale steeled himself and walked down the hall towards its source.

“Crowley?” he called again, but still the demon didn’t answer. 

He had only been in Crowley’s flat once some years before, but the demon had already done some redecorating – the walls were black, occasionally adorned with art in bold, rather garish colour. In the living room, deep, soft-looking couches were contrasted with bold brass embellishments, including a coffee table that was littered with the sorts of trendy coffee table books Aziraphale didn’t keep in the shop. He let out a little sigh and continued on, following the sound of the cacophonous be-bop. 

The one room Aziraphale did truly love was filled with Crowley’s plants. He had no idea how the demon kept them looking so fresh and healthy – Aziraphale himself was known for killing plants passively through neglect – but he obviously put in a lot of effort. That is where Aziraphale found Crowley now, spraying mist over leaves, listening to his loud music, and . . . dancing. 

Crowley was dancing with his back turned to Aziraphale, shaking his hips back and forth in a most provocative display. He was wearing tight black trousers and nothing else, his bare feet sliding over the granite floor as he went from plant to plant. His short hair was damp at the nape, as though he had been spritzing himself, too, or perhaps had been sweating. Their corporations did that unless they were reminded not to, so Crowley was either oblivious to it or didn’t mind. 

Aziraphale felt some sweat of his own prickle under his collar, and he cleared his throat to announce his presence. It was rather warm in the greenhouse room. Unfortunately, with the loudness of the music, Crowley didn’t hear him. And the longer he stood there, the more ridiculous he felt. Perhaps he should just let himself back out of the flat with Crowley none the wiser. But he couldn’t. 

The next song came on. It was unfamiliar to Aziraphale, but clearly Crowley had listened to it many times; he started singing along from the first line, still rolling his hips from side to side, a little slower than previously, which made his dancing even more suggestive. His back muscles moved with a mesmerising grace, and the lyrics of the song held Aziraphale captive: 

_Love is a stranger  
In an open car  
To tempt you in  
And drive you far away_  


Aziraphale held his breath.  


_And I want you  
And I want you  
And I want you so  
It's an obsession_  


Crowley spun, using his plant mister as a microphone and throwing his free arm up in the air. His feet tapped the rhythm on the floor, and he brought the plastic bottle closer to his lips, nearly kissing it as he sang and shimmied. Unfortunately, the song itself had quite a bit of grunting and groaning, and Crowley was now doing things like touching his flat bare stomach, then moving to the waistband of his trousers, and then caressing his face. He looked like he belonged on the cover of one of the be-bop records he kept in the Bentley. 

_Love is a danger  
Of a different kind  
To take you away  
And leave you far behind  
And love love love  
Is a dangerous drug_

Frankly, Aziraphale was beginning to feel a little faint. He began his retreat, but with his eyes on Crowley did not see the empty flower pot at his feet until he’d stepped in it, tripped, and fallen over on his behind, nearly knocking down another plant in the process. 

“Oh, fiddlesticks,” he groaned from his humiliating position on the floor. 

The music stopped. Crowley sauntered over to where Aziraphale lay in a pile and smirked down at him. “Hello, Aziraphale. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Crowley,” he said, trying to regain his composure. It was very difficult, however, to concentrate when presented with so much of Crowley, so close. His bare feet flexed as he stood, and Aziraphale realised he hadn’t seen them that way for over five thousand years. They were truly lovely feet, fine-boned with high arches and long toes. For a giddy moment, Aziraphale wondered what would happen if he reached out and traced the curved line of them with his finger. 

“Angel?” Crowley was reaching down to him, reminding Aziraphale that he was still very much on the floor with his foot in a flowerpot. He took the proffered assistance with as much dignity as he could muster – which was not much. At least he had not been wearing his usual effort today. If he had, he would be in a much more embarrassing situation – but this was bad enough. “I take it you don’t like the Eurythmics.” 

Aziraphale was brushing the potting soil off his coat, turning away from Crowley to do so, so he could gather his wits, which he seemed to have left back at the bookshop. “Is that what you call . . . what you were just listening to? The rhythmics?” 

Crowley tutted. “You really don’t get out enough. Did you at least like my dancing?” 

It was impossible for Aziraphale not to flush. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.” He hoped that Crowley wouldn’t press him more on what was an obvious deflection. 

“I didn’t know I’d have an audience – well, other than the plants. I would have practiced.” 

“Well, I tried to get your attention but the bloody music was too loud.” 

“You could have called first.” 

Aziraphale pursed his lips. He had considered calling, but he had wanted to make an overture – to drop by, as Crowley so often did. But he couldn’t explain that to the demon; they were, after all, on opposite sides. “Is it so very wrong for me to pop in to discuss business? We need to talk about Margaret Thatcher.” 

Crowley tossed back his head and groaned loudly. “And I was in such a good mood.” 

“Yes, well, she is one of yours.” 

“She is absolutely not! She’s one of yours.” 

“I think it is very plain that this woman is bound straight for Hell.” 

They bickered good-naturedly for the rest of the afternoon, which turned into an evening with many bottles of wine. Finally Crowley fell asleep on the sofa, his long legs stretched out, mouth slightly ajar, the shirt he had put on soon after Aziraphale’s arrival riding up on his taut stomach. As he let himself out of Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale remembered the afternoon, and thought he might pay a trip to the record store around the corner.

_***  
1995_

Crowley was lounging, pretending to read a book he’d selected at random from the shelves while Aziraphale went over to the record player to change the vinyl. He watched from behind the safety of his glasses as the angel flipped through his assorted collection of 78s – a hodgepodge of classical, jazz and Broadway that spoke to the angel’s taste in music – and hummed thoughtfully, his lips pursed together.

It was a late spring evening, and Crowley hadn't planned to stay so late, but they had been talking and drinking, as they so often did, and time had gotten away from them. 

“Ah-ha!” Aziraphale said, smiling and wiggling a little as he made his selection, removed Chopin and replaced it with something Crowley was sure he would not like. 

“Oh, no, angel, not this song again,” Crowley groaned as the needle scratched and Binnie Hale began to warble:

_I've got a creed for every need  
So easy that it must succeed  
I'll set it down for you to read  
So please, take heed_

_Keep out the gloom, let in the sun  
That's my advice to everyone_

“There is nothing wrong with this song, Crowley. It’s a lovely song. It’s got an important message.” 

“That’s it’s main problem. Just listen to it, angel.” 

“I have – repeatedly. And if you don’t like it you can go.” Aziraphale was almost pouting now, and Crowley sighed, retreating behind the cover of the book. His silence seemed to render him forgiven, and Aziraphale perked up again, humming lightly. He turned his back to Crowley and went about arranging the new shelf he had just installed for his ever-expanding book collection. As he did so, he began to dance again, in time with the beat, such as it was. 

_It's only once you pass this way  
So day by day_

_Even though the darkest clouds are in the sky  
When things go wrong, you mustn't sigh  
Spread a little happiness as you go by, just try_

Crowley, who had not changed his mind at all about the terribleness of the song, was nonetheless captivated by Aziraphale’s wiggling. He hadn’t seen the angel dance since the nineteenth century, when he had been feeling very sorry for himself and more than a little jealous. He was feeling less sorry for himself now, especially as Aziraphale did a little flourish, using one hand to conduct an imaginary band while he slid the books into place with the other. 

He wanted to dance with the angel. It was impossible, of course, unallowable – unforgivable, even, but Crowley wanted it just the same. He imagined coming up behind Aziraphale, putting his hands on the angel’s waist and swaying with him. Maybe Aziraphale would lean back into his embrace, rest his head against Crowley’s cheek. They would dance like that, together, back to front, and Crowley wouldn’t care about what song they were listening to. In this dream scenario, Aziraphale wouldn’t mind him pressing a kiss against his cheek, or the soft place just under his ear. They would stay like that until the song ended, and then maybe even after. Or maybe Aziraphale would kiss him, too, and then shoo him away to the couch so that he could finish his work, smiling fondly. 

_What's the use of worrying or feeling blue  
When things go wrong, keep on smiling through  
Spread a little happiness till dreams come true_

Crowley was very close to letting out a lovelorn sigh, but miraculously held it in. It was charming, how unselfconscious Aziraphale was, almost as though he didn’t even notice he was dancing at all. Crowley forced his eyes back to the page and ground his teeth together. His dreams wouldn’t be coming true anytime soon. 

“There!” Aziraphale said, once the shelf was filled. “A perfect new place for my cooking novels.” 

“Your cooking novels?” 

The song had ended and gone on to another, and Aziraphale stopped dancing. He looked at Crowley as though he had three heads, which he did not, currently. “Of course. All of the novels where the protagonists cook a notable meal, or that feature food as a primary motif.” 

“That’s . . . an interesting way of categorizing.” The bookshop was already so haphazardly organized, it made it impossible for anyone to find anything – exactly how the angel liked it. “Probably covers a lot of books.” 

“Fewer than you would think, unfortunately,” Aziraphale replied. He clapped his hands together. “Another bottle of wine?” 

“You read my mind, angel.” But that was a lie, thankfully.

_***  
2014_

When the Antichrist was five years old, Nanny Ashtoreth taught him to dance.

Aziraphale, who was currently known to the household as the gardener, chanced upon them one afternoon, out beyond the woodshed in the little field filled with violets. He was holding a spade and a bucket – mostly for appearance’s sake – and he almost dropped them both when he saw what was afoot. 

Nanny always wore a long, well-tailored black skirt and sensible but attractive shoes or boots. Today was no different, but she had left her hat behind, and wisps of red hair had escaped her usual bun and framed her face becomingly. She was looking down at Warlock, a slight smile on her face, and she was dancing – or rather, she had been dancing, until Aziraphale rounded the corner and spotted them. 

“Brother Francis!” called the boy eagerly. “Look what I can do!” He started making some strange motions with his hands and his feet, pointing at the sky and then down again at the ground. He shook his shoulders and his feet, looking as though he were having some kind of a fit. 

“Nanny, I didn’t know dancing was part of your lessons,” Aziraphale said in Brother Francis’s voice. He used the opportunity to come closer, setting down his burden as he did. 

“Nanny’s teaching me disco! She says that disco is the most evil of all of the dances!” 

“Is that so? Well, I would like to see this evil dance.” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at Nanny, who made a face back at him. 

“Oh, let’s show him, Nanny, please!” 

Nanny sighed and Aziraphale knew she was rolling her eyes even behind her little round glasses. Aziraphale had caught Crowley out – there was no doubt the demon was fond of the boy, but she absolutely did not want Aziraphale to know how much. 

Warlock had taken both of Nanny’s hands and began jumping around gracelessly, urging her to move. Finally, she obliged him, and the two of them began to dance side by side, clapping as they did so. Four steps forward, four steps back, turning to the front and then the other way. Warlock watched Nanny out of the corner of his eye as the demon did the pointing gesture, sliding her feet as she did so; the little boy imitated her, rolling his arms and grinning. 

Aziraphale’s heart thumped in his chest, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe – luckily, that was only a formality anyway. He had always known that Crowley had so much goodness, even if the demon didn’t wish it to be known. It was painfully obvious now, and the contradiction he so often felt where Crowley was concerned, between what Aziraphale knew to be true of the demon and the reality of their different lots, faded away entirely. He knew only pure happiness.

When it was over and Warlock had fallen to the ground in his exuberance, Nanny leaned her hands on her knees, pretending to catch her breath.

“Where did you learn how to dance like that, Nanny?” Aziraphale asked. “You don’t strike me as a lady who would frequent the dancing halls, if you don’t mind my saying.” 

“I do mind you saying. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Brother Francis.” Nanny smoothed her skirts and stood up, smirking at him. “We all have hidden talents.” 

“That was the most fun I’ve ever had!” Warlock exclaimed from where he was lying spread-eagled on the grass. “Can we do it again?” 

“Not now, dear,” Nanny said. “It’s time for lunch.” 

“Awwww.” Warlock scrunched up his face and crossed his arms. 

“You’ve got to eat to grow big and strong,” said Nanny.

“But not too strong,” said Aziraphale.

The boy laughed and made muscles with his arms. “I’m going to be strong as the Hulk!” 

Aziraphale and Crowley exchanged a look that said, _‘I hope not_ ,’ and then Nanny and Warlock retreated back to the house. Aziraphale sighed wistfully and watched them go.

_***  
December, 2021_

Crowley had never been a guest at a human wedding before, and neither had Aziraphale, but they received an invitation to Shadwell’s Assistant and Book Girl’s wedding, addressed to both of them together, and they decided that making an appearance wouldn’t hurt – or rather, Aziraphale decided. Crowley was fine going along. He thought Book Girl was a bit of all right, and he supposed that Shadwell’s Assistant was probably fine, if a bit of a wet noodle.

“They’re called Newt and Anathema,” Aziraphale told him for the fiftieth time as they made their way from the tent where the ceremony – non-denominational, thank Someone – had taken place, to the interior of the barn where the dancing and eating and such was to be held. 

“I know their names. I just choose not to use their names.” 

Aziraphale, whose hand was a warm, comforting weight on Crowley’s arm, swatted him with the other. They found their table, where they had been placed with an elderly aunt, some American that Book Girl worked with and her wife, two sulky, teenage cousins, and another man that kept checking his phone but that no one else seemed to know. Aziraphale, of course, struck up a conversation with the American couple, who were friendly as Americans usually were, and the first part of the dinner passed without incident, lubricated by plenty of wine and punctuated by several sappy speeches from various members of the wedding party – of which Shadwell was one, strangely enough. His assistant really did need to make some friends his own age. 

Madame Tracy was in attendance, too, and Adam and his folks – it was a veritable reunion of the day that the Earth had not ended, and Crowley found he was enjoying the wedding in spite of himself. 

Dessert was passed around. Crowley wasn’t really paying attention to the conversation, but he half-heard the American friend explain how she and her wife had gotten married via Zoom – which Crowley was very proud for having invented – during the pandemic. Crowley tore up his napkin into tiny little pieces as Aziraphale oooh-ed and ahh-ed over their love story, eating his cake and Crowley’s for good measure. His own memories of that time were a little more lonely – Aziraphale had of course wanted to play by the rules, and they had barely seen each other for over a year. But now, they were making up for lost time – slowly but surely. 

“So how did you two get together?” asked the American friend, who was sitting on Aziraphale’s other side. She smiled as she looked from Aziraphale to Crowley, addressing the question to him, probably in an attempt to be inclusive or some such rot.

Crowley’s stomach lurched. They hadn’t quite had _that_ conversation yet, and he had no idea how to respond. Of course, it was a completely reasonable question to ask, but his lack of response had the woman flushing. 

“Funny story, that,” Aziraphale said, saving him. “I actually met him in a beautiful garden. The first garden—” 

“In England!” Crowley completed, then whispered a warning, “Angel.” Aziraphale sometimes overshared with humans, especially when he’d been drinking. 

“Oh, wow, that sounds amazing,” the woman said, clearly relieved she hadn’t gotten it wrong. “What’s it called? Maybe we could go while we’re here,” she added to her partner. 

“Ah, I don’t think it’s open to the public, unfortunately,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale smiled at Crowley and nodded. “Yes, well. It started to rain, and I offered Crowley protection under my wi—” 

“Umbrella!” Crowley elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I sheltered him from the storm.” 

“How romantic!” 

“I’m afraid we didn’t understand each other very well at first,” Aziraphale continued. “But we soon got on. We came up with an arrangement—” 

“A business arrangement,” Crowley clarified when the woman’s eyes widened. 

Aziraphale nodded. “But it wasn’t long before we were good friends. We have been through such a lot together.” 

“And then it turned into love,” the woman supplied, holding her own partner’s hand on the table and lacing their fingers together. “That’s really wonderful.”

Aziraphale didn’t correct her, just tucked into his wedding cake, as though he hadn’t just disclosed to some random American stranger that he and Crowley were a couple – and that they were in love? Crowley watched his profile, seeing the faint flush there – and the angel’s eyes darted over to him tentatively. Crowley wasn’t completely sure what was going on, but he was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open. He closed it with a snap. 

“You can tell you’ve been together for ages,” said the other American, leaning over her wife. “How long has it been?” 

“Yeah, angel, I can hardly remember. How long has it been, again?” Crowley raised an eyebrow.

Aziraphale set down his fork and dabbed his lips with his napkin. “Sometimes it feels like six thousand years,” he said, looking directly at Crowley. 

The two women laughed, agreeing that yes, sometimes it did feel like forever, and the conversation drifted to another topic.

Crowley was still reeling, not only from Aziraphale’s casual discussion of their relationship, which he’d long thought he’d be discorproated before ever hearing, but also because the angel’s hand had slipped down next to his, casually asking to be held. Crowley did, feeling confused, elated, and yet utterly content. He held the angel’s hand and tried to wrap his mind around the fact that they were finally going the same speed. 

Meanwhile, the music had begun, and after Book Girl and Shadwell’s Assistant had done their thing, the floor opened up to other dancers of varying degrees of skill and enthusiasm. The songs were the kind Crowley would usually flip through quickly on the radio lest his ears start to bleed, but Aziraphale was looking towards the couples and small groups with longing. A saccharine love song began, and Aziraphale’s expression got even more misty. 

“Do you want to dance, angel?” 

“Here? In front of all these people?” Aziraphale sounded more excited than nervous. 

“Yeah. Why not? I hardly think anyone is going to report us to our former head offices.” 

“Um. All right. I am afraid I have two left feet.” 

“I know that’s not true.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Ah, I’ll tell you about it another time.” 

Crowley took Aziraphale into his arms as the song went on and the glittering dance floor filled with people. The angel seemed to melt against him, and after a few false starts their feet settled into a slow and unremarkable rhythm. Crowley held the angel tightly, clasping one of his hands while he fit the other on the small of Aziraphale’s back. Everything about it was so intimate, it was overwhelming. Crowley didn’t know or care what the song was; all of his senses were filled with the angel – his touch, his smell, the look of his face so close, illuminated by the fairy lights hanging overhead. 

“I’ve always wanted to dance with you,” Aziraphale said quietly. “I’ve thought about it a thousand times.” 

“You never said.” 

“Well, I couldn’t have, could I?” 

Crowley wasn’t going to argue. “I suppose not. I wanted to dance with you, too.” 

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long.”

“Sss all right,” Crowley said. “It’s a good thing we were invited to this random wedding.” 

“It’s not random! It’s Newt and Anathema, Crowley.” 

“Potato, potahto. Listen. I don’t want to talk about them. What you said back there, to the Americans…” 

“I meant every word. It has felt like six thousand years. I . . . suppose I’ve become so used to not being able to talk about my feelings that I find it extremely difficult to break the habit. I believe I needed a bit of prodding – and you have been so utterly patient, my dear. But I . . . do hope it was all right, what I said. And what was left . . . implied.” Aziraphale was gazing at him, their eyes locked as the song changed, and then changed again. They danced toward the edge of the floor, away from some of the more exuberant dancers, completely ignoring the tempo of the songs as they swayed together. Crowley wanted to say a lot of things, but now that he had Aziraphale in his arms, he found himself at a complete loss for words. 

“Of course it’s all right,” he said, squeezing the angel tighter. 

“I know that I will get better at it. If . . . that’s what you want?” 

“What do you think, angel?” 

Their faces were so close now, and the angel’s lips were slightly parted, just begging to be kissed. Crowley had thought about this moment a thousand, thousand times – and as they finally connected, he realised all of his fantasies were nothing but a pale shadow compared to the real thing. And yes, the feeling of the angel’s lips was amazing, lighting up the nerves all over Crowley’s body – which he had never been more thankful for having. They smiled against each other, laughing, as the song changed again. 

_Oh, you're the best friend that I ever had  
I've been with you such a long time  
You're my sunshine and I want you to know  
That my feelings are true  
I really love you  
Oh, you're my best friend_

Crowley nuzzled against his ear, and Aziraphale put his head on Crowley’s shoulder. They danced for what felt like hours in the darkest corner of the room to a rhythm perhaps only they could hear. 

“Um – guys?” It was Book Girl’s voice that finally broke through Crowley’s reverie. He raised his head sleepily from where it was pillowed against Aziraphale. Book Girl wasn’t wearing her wedding dress anymore, and the entire room was empty, save for a few people milling about at the back saying their goodbyes. “Sorry to break up your dancing, but the cleaning crew is about to kick us out.” 

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said, flushing. “I am so sorry.” 

“Not at all – glad to see you guys having fun. I’m so glad you could come.” She gave them a little smile and a wink. “Looks like weddings really do bring people together.” 

A few more words of collegiality and congratulations were exchanged, and Crowley and Aziraphale made their way back to the Bentley, which was now covered with a light dusting of snow. 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale as they got in and settled themselves. Nothing had changed – but everything had. 

“Where to, angel?” he asked. 

Aziraphale smiled at him. “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
